In Darkness Keep
by eyre
Summary: G/S ... So it was to be a morning of honesty, of long unspoken truths. And that was alright.
1. Default Chapter

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This is set post season 3. No direct mention is made of Grissom's surgery, although it is assumed that he recovered from it without incident (because really, what would they do with a deaf Grissom for another 2 seasons?). To the best of my ability, I've tried to keep characterizations and events in the universe of "this could actually happen."  
  
No infringement is intended, I'm just borrowing the characters because they're so much fun to write.  
  
This is Part one. More will eventually follow.  
  
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She stopped in front of the door to his office. It was shut almost all the way, but a weak light spilled through the crack. Shift had ended hours ago, but in typically fashion Sara had stayed late, wrapping up loose ends on a few pieces of evidence. Somewhere along the line Nick, Warrick and Catherine had stuck their heads in to say good night before leaving. A lab tech had mentioned Grissom leaving for the night too, but he never left his office open. She pushed the door open enough to peer into the dim room.  
  
"Grissom?" There was no response though and after a few seconds she began to close the door again.  
  
His voice stopped her. "I'm here" he said softly, from somewhere within the office. "Did you need something?"  
  
"Oh, no." Sarah opened the door again, the harsh light from the fluorescents in the hallway illuminating her way as she stepped in. "I just thought you left hours ago. I saw the light on..." Grissom wasn't behind his desk and Sara's eyes surveyed the room looking for him, even as she spoke. She finally saw him. He was sitting in the shadow of one of the shelving units. His back against the wall, his knees drawn up, and a more than half empty bottle of bourbon at his feet. He didn't look up at her, instead his eyes were focused on the pale orange liquid in the glass he held in his hand. She hadn't thought he kept alcohol in his office and briefly wondered where he had gotten it.  
  
Grissom remained silent, so she spoke again, "It was a tough case." It was an acknowledgement, an invitation to talk. The case she was talking about had been forced to back burner tonight, after the evidence proved too weak to take to the DA's office. That wasn't the only reason it was hard, though. The victim was a young girl, no more than eight years old. The autopsy revealed that she had been abused and beaten repeatedly in the past and brutally before her murder. They were convinced her step father, a rough, blue collar man, was responsible. Examining the crime scene was heartbreaking; the squalor of the one room apartment the family was living in, the corner the child had been sleeping in, the ratted doll with one eye missing on her mattress. Sara knew she had come a long way with being able to handle her emotions on cases, but this one was almost too much.   
  
She had to leave the interrogation room two separate times while they were interviewing the step father to avoid blowing up. The second time, Grissom had followed her out and suggested she might be more comfortable handling one of the other new cases that had come in. She had almost blown at *him* then, the determined calm that he had exhibited since the case testing the last shreds of her control. She had almost called him unfeeling again, along with some other choice adjectives. Almost. Instead she had bitten her tongue and muttered something less accusatory, but the look on his face and the momentary flash in his eyes told her that he had intuited what she hadn't said. Sometimes he was too good at that.   
  
She hadn't left the case, of course. But now it was over anyway and here was Grissom alone in his office, sitting on the floor, drinking when he thought he wouldn't be disturbed. The case must have bothered him as much as it did her, she realized, he was just better at covering it. The revelation wasn't a complete surprise, she knew him well enough to know that he was affected by the tough cases in his own way, but now open evidence of just how much was before her eyes.  
  
He had heard her last statement and was looking up at her now. "Yeah, tough case." He was echoing in a monotone, and then after a pause, "Can you shut the door? The light..."  
  
He hadn't asked her to leave, she realized, and took it as an invitation to stay. Sara shut the door gently and dropped her bag and files on a chair. The rift that had been growing between them for months made her hesitate, but she walked over and slid her back down the wall until she was sitting next to him. Darkness allowed one to make allowances.  
  
"How much have that have you had?" She nodded towards to bottle.  
  
Grissom eyed it for a moment before responding, "It was full," he said with a shrug.  
  
He must be completely drunk then, Sara thought. But his words were deliberate and even, with only a little trace of a slur. Instead, he spoke more slowly, as if taking the extra time his brain demanded to consider what he was going to say before he said it. Always so determined not to reveal himself. She wondered if he had been here like this since shift ended.   
  
"We should have gotten that bastard," Grissom said, his voice laden with an emotion Sara couldn't quite identify, "We followed the evidence and it got us nowhere... what's left when science doesn't work Sara?"  
  
Coming from Grissom the question was a shock, but Sara answered after a heartbeat; she knew this one. "Faith."  
  
"Faith?"  
  
She nodded, "Faith that we did the best we could for that little girl; faith that somehow the universe will make sure that guy pays for what he did; faith that next time we'll do better." How odd it was for her to be offering the words of comfort to him, the teacher, the cold unemotional one.  
  
Grissom shook his head, "I don't think I have too much faith left anymore."  
  
Sara was silent for a few minutes, absorbing his confession. He had been doing this job for over 15 years and she wasn't sure what she could say that he hadn't heard before, or said before. He probably knew even better than her that there were good days and bad days, and at the end of the bad days sometimes it was all you could do to drag yourself through to the next.  
  
"You can't solve them all Grissom, I know you try, but there are times when the best we can do is just the best we can do. It's not your fault." It sounded weak even to her own ears, but Sara had a feeling she couldn't say anything that would really make a difference. Sometimes it's just the gesture that counts.  
  
"I know it's not my fault, but it is my responsibility."  
  
"We're a team Grissom," Sara said, trying to share some of his burden, "Remember?"  
  
He scoffed in response and emptied the contents of the glass down his throat.  
  
None of the gang had ever managed to get Grissom to go out with them, so there was always ongoing speculation about what the Boss would be like after a few. If Catherine knew, she never told; Nick thought that he would be up on the counters doing pole dances; Warrick bet money that he would pass out after one. Greg had said something about feathers and latex. But the Grissom that sat next Sara now was none of those things, he seemed powerfully introspective and for once, almost vulnerable. She knew it wouldn't last, but it made her want to reach out for him, even though he had brushed her off last time she tried.  
  
"Let me drive you home Grissom. You can't do anything more for her and you can't sit here in your office all day." Grissom didn't respond, his eyes staring off at the opposite wall. Sara reached a hand out and laid it on his arm to get his attention. "Grids?"  
  
The contact startled him out his revere and he looked down at her hand. Warm, soft and gentle; short nails; no nail polish. His mind categorized and analyzed even through the alcohol induced fog. "Sure, thanks." He couldn't drive himself anywhere like this and suddenly, the idea of spending the day sitting on the floor drunk didn't seem quite as appealing as it had earlier.  
  
Sara nodded and stood up, preferring a hand to help haul Grissom to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a few seconds, his hand grabbing her shoulder to steady himself. "Sorry," he muttered before pulling back. The bottle and glass were slipped into a drawer and he somehow managed to remember his briefcase before following Sara out of the office.  
  
She eyed him discretely as they walked down halls bustling with people from the day shift. Grissom moved with a shuffle, with his head down and one hand trailing against the wall. She hoped they could make a clean getaway without anyone talking to them. He may be able to almost pull off looking sober, but she doubted his ability to hold a completely coherent conversation. Fortunately, they escaped without running into anyone.   
  
Outside, Grissom squinted in the bright morning light and almost tripped on the way to her car.   
  
"Oh god," he mumbled as she put a steading arm on his, "too bright." She wondered if he was on the edge of a migraine, too. Sara led him to her car and he settled into the passenger seat. With a sidelong glance at the man beside her, Sara put the car in reverse and pulled out of the CSI parking lot.  
  
TBC 


	2. Part 2

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This is set post season 3. No direct mention is made of Grissom's surgery, although it is assumed that he recovered from it without incident (because really, what would they do with a deaf Grissom for another 2 seasons?). To the best of my ability, I've tried to keep characterizations and events in the universe of "this could actually happen." (Albiet never in any episode we'd ever see).  
  
No infringement is intended, I'm just borrowing the characters because they're so much fun to write.  
  
This is Part Two. More will eventually follow.  
  
Thanks for all the wonderful feedback on part one guys!!  
  
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Mornings washed Las Vegas in hues of orange and yellows. Reflected off tall buildings and haze, the light chased away the shadows of the city's seething night-time underworld. Driving home with the rising sun always made Sara feel refreshed; it banished some of the shadows that permeated her work, too.  
  
This morning was different though. A reminder of the horrors of the job was sitting right next her in the form of a drunk Gil Grissom. They hadn't said anything to each other since pulling out of CSI, but now that Sara was on the highway where traffic was less heavy, she was able to sneak occasional glances over in his direction. He had turned away from her, his face pressed against the headrest and the window. She wondered if he was sleeping.   
  
A truck pulled in front and Sara slowed down to accommodate it, resisting the urge to honk and curse the driver. Another glance in Grissom's direction and her eyes were drawn to his hands in his lap, idly toying with his glasses; he was still awake.  
  
Sara wanted to say something, but couldn't think of anything to break the silence. And then she realized that she didn't exactly know the way to his townhouse. She couldn't remember the last time she had been there.  
  
"Grissom... how do I get to your place?"  
  
He answered without turning. "Next exit. Right at the lights, 5th down on the left."  
  
Ten minutes later Sara pulled in front of the building and shut off the engine. She watched as Grissom unfastened his seatbelt and unsteadily got out of the car. There was a war going on inside her head. Part of her wanted to follow him out and up to his door, the other part kept her frozen to her seat, convinced that he would just want her to go. Their earlier conversation not withstanding, she was so unsure of where she stood with him these days. He had let her drive him home, but that was a concession to necessity. She thought that he might have accepted the same offer from Catherine, or Warrick, or even Nick.  
  
His voice interrupted her inner conflict and she looked up to see him peering back inside the car. "Uh..Sara? You want to come in...? I uh... think I need some coffee. I can make for two."  
  
The invitation was a surprising turnaround from his earlier despondency, but then, he had been surprising her a lot this morning. It was just coffee though, she told herself. Someone drives you home and you invite them in for some coffee; it's polite. But all the rationalizing in the world couldn't stop the small flip her stomach did, or the patented Sara Grin that split her face as she nodded a yes.  
  
Once inside, Grissom dropped the keys and briefcase on a table and turned on a light to illuminate his living room. Sara stood behind him beside the door, watching him and adjusting to the fact that she was here with him, in his house. Her eyes stayed trained on him as he started to move off towards the kitchen. Halfway there he paused and turned around, with an afterthought said, "Um ... Make yourself at home," and then disappeared around the corner.   
  
Left to herself, Sara couldn't help but look over his living room with open curiosity. Like any house, Grissom's was a reflection of it's inhabitant. In many ways it was like his office, filled with clutter that somehow managed to appear meticulously organized, books and strange objects. But absent were the sometimes gruesome displays of preserved animals and insects that adorned the shelves in his office.   
  
Sara wandered over to a butterfly collection that decorated one wall and studied the wings on them, a jumble of colors, all still and perfectly mounted. A stack of books on a coffee table caught her eye and she fingered through them, considering the titles and wondering if he had read them yet. She studied his bookshelf, running her fingers over the stereo that sat there and a line of books, as if she could absorb some new understanding of him through her fingertips.  
  
Sara stopped her perusal of the room when she heard a curse from the kitchen. She peered around the corner to see him struggling with the coffee machine and its filter; it was clearly not designed for use by the clumsy fingers of inebriated men.  
  
"Here, Gris, why don't you let me get that?"   
  
"You're my hero," he said with a lopsided grin, and stepped back to lean on the counter while she took his place.   
  
As she busied herself making coffee she could feel his eyes burning into her back. She wondered what he was thinking.   
  
"I don't do this often," he said finally, as she was starting the machine.  
  
Sara turned around to look at him with a grin, "Do what? Invite women in for coffee?" It was a joke, but she couldn't help the slight undercurrent of emotion in her voice. A part of her hoped he wouldn't notice; an even smaller part hoped he would.  
  
Grissom raised his eyebrow at her but ignored the bait, "No, camp out on the floor of my office and get blown three sheets to the wind."  
  
"Ahhh," Sara said with an exaggerated nod, "Well, you don't have to worry about it Gris, nobody will hear anything about it from me."  
  
"That's not what I was thinking," he said, and then softer with an almost imperceptible change in tone, "I know you'd never say anything."   
  
Sara quickly averted her eyes; she never knew quite how to respond to his seemingly offhand comments like that, so she did what she always did and redirected the conversation. "So what were you thinking then?"   
  
A corner of his mouth quirked up, "That since you found me, I can't chastise you for getting too emotionally involved in cases anymore."  
  
It was dark humor, but Sara couldn't help the small laugh that erupted. As quickly as it came, though, it was gone, the gravity of the past few days coming back to her.   
  
She moved to stand next him against the counter, both of them watching the coffee maker drip with slow regularity.  
  
"What was it about this case?" Moments of silence stretched out, but Sara could almost hear Grissom's mind working as she peered over at him. He finally answered her.   
  
"Children are a little like scientists. They come into this world with no preconceived notions of things, but questions about everything. It's all fresh and new to them; they possess this... this incredible sense of awe and wonder about the world around them. We lose most of that somewhere alone the way, even scientists and artists, and we keep more than most." He paused for a heart beat, "But .. there's a kind of benign innocence in that...and to abuse a child like that, to steal that innocence?" Grissom trailed off and shrugged, "We should have gotten that guy for what he did."  
  
Sara had expected him to talk about unsolved puzzles or a criminal mind he couldn't beat, things she knew the scientist and CSI in him would find intolerable. But this was an emotional response, a quiet, contained outrage that had nothing to do with science and everything to do with being human. It was one that she clearly understood and related to. Without thinking, Sara ran her hand down the arm next to her, landing on his hand and giving it light squeeze. It was an natural gesture of comfort, but once done she didn't know what to do with her hand, and so she left it on top of his. She expected him to pull away, but he hadn't moved, and after a few moments she felt his thumb burning across her skin in a gentle caress against the edge of a finger. Sara's head jerked up to look at his face, but Grissom's eyes were unfocused, still staring across at the coffee machine; he was off in Grissomland. She wondered if he was aware of what he was doing, of how he could make her feel, even reeling from a bad case.  
  
The buzz of the coffee pot broke the moment. Grissom shook himself slightly and hauled himself up and away from her. Sara was still standing there, watching him as he carefully reached for two mugs out of cabinet.   
  
"Can you get the cream? In the fridge." He asked her without looking around.  
  
TBC 


End file.
